


And No Growth From Bad Soil

by momomasoch



Series: Adolescent Gardens [2]
Category: Glee
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Birth Control, Boarding School, Double Anal Penetration, F/M, Gang Rape, Hand Jobs, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Mutual Masturbation, Non-Consensual, Oral Sex, Orientation Play, Parent/Child Incest, Underage Sex, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-15
Updated: 2020-06-15
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:22:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24739180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/momomasoch/pseuds/momomasoch
Summary: The previous summer was not the end of Kurt's troubles. As a claimed omega, he doesn't just want a mate—but romance, too.
Relationships: Blaine Anderson/Kurt Hummel, Burt Hummel/Kurt Hummel, Kurt Hummel/The Warblers, Rachel Berry/Kurt Hummel
Series: Adolescent Gardens [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1788865
Kudos: 12





	And No Growth From Bad Soil

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted the content of this installment to be more explicit than before, but the erotica might have come at the expense of the emotion. I hope the tragedy of the situation comes across.

The first month of the new year was excruciating: unseasonably warm, bizarrely so, pairing the early shy heads of cherry blossoms with powderings of snow; the chalk boards barely dusted off from their winter absence, and desks beginning to become occupied again: with older, more constrained alphas, and younger, hungry ones.

Over the previous month, Kurt had been having—difficulties. His father had made it a habit, perhaps to atone for childhood and adolescent years both of neglect, to press his plain mouth to his son’s—a kiss of greeting, or farewell, or just habit. Platonic—they were both insistent on that—even as Kurt raised his winter-chapped fingers to curl around Burt’s thick wrists—thrice the width of Kurt’s arms—to put an end to it, lips sealed firmly together.

“Dad—stop.” He would gasp, baby-pink lungs shuddering as if a pair of helium-starved balloons, turning his head to the opposite cheek. Even a beta managed to send sparks of warmth tingling down to his fingers, his curling socked toes, in their parody of domestic normality.

Burt would tiredly reason, releasing his son’s quivering chin, the swollen mouth: “You have to have something, Kurt. You can’t go to any alpha once your—week—starts. What if Finn was home? You don’t think I know how—bad—what we’re doin’ is?”

Sometimes, a tongue would slip between them: sticky and sloppy with spittle: the flavor of sharp lemon and beer and nautical spice; the fruit so acidic and the edges of his father’s teeth so sharp, Kurt would come away with a bloodied tongue. “You need a _bite_. And I’m not gonna give it to you—maybe, when you’re older—you can find a mate.” Kurt, pulled over his father’s knees—dropped abruptly to the wooden floorboards.

Just as spring cursed a few unlucky students with allergies, from golden dust-plumes of pollen carried in the breeze, tissues crumpled and pressed to phlegmy, stuffed noses and damp dazes—Kurt pretended he had developed a sensitivity to the same such flower-heads, bursting apart, petals peeling eagerly to reveal a cluster of nectar—and tried to muffle his sniffling, blotting at his nostrils. No one questioned his new allergies.

* * *

“Have you been taking vitamins?” His schoolmate asked, befuddled and butterscotch-sweet in his ignorance, as the two boys exchanged their respective lunches—for Kurt: bitter-chocolate wafers and strawberry pudding and other classic candies; and for Blaine: egg salad and packages of fruit slices. “You’re pale, Kurt. You didn’t go outside during break?”

“I did!” Kurt huffed, unwrapping half of a candy bar—mere marshmallow fluff, melting against his fingers. A smile curled limply at his mouth. “Are you going to try to put me on supplements?”

Blaine picked at the pieces of cheerful yolk. “There are nutrition drinks; I could get some for you. I know they’re disgusting, but—there are other flavors, too. Vanilla—chocolate—”

“I don’t want them.” The crisp words snapped between them—as if a slap; Kurt lowered his utensils. “I don’t need to be bribed into eating well.”

“—I just thought they would taste better for you.” Blaine stated firmly, with thin anger, prickling at the contents of his dish, without spearing any of it upon his fork. The immaturity of the gesture caused the other boy’s flesh to prickle.

“You could apologize.” Kurt suggested, and that hazelnut gaze narrowed in confusion, head tipping to one side in indulgence, listening. “About—what happened before—around summer.”

“Why?” The question was so plain, it startled the opposite male. Blaine lowered his tone, muttering over their mushed luncheons, warmth reddening his cheeks. “Did it hurt? It’s just nature, alphas are—bigger—I tried to be gentle—”

“What?” Kurt could only manage the one word, dumbly, his mouth sluggish. Had the other not caught sight of salted tears—or the pungent stains of blood in his underwear—or the aching and stunted gait, for days afterwards— “Blaine, you r—” But he could not finish the awful word, swallowing it down with ribbons of caramel. “You—hurt me.”

“I never meant to, Kurt. I didn’t know it would be so painful for you.” Fingers pressed lightly to Kurt’s throat: a crescent scar of Blaine’s teeth, bitten into the tender flesh, forever. “And I didn’t want to mark you, either. I just—got caught up in the—hierarchy of it all.” He grimaced.

“But—” Kurt protested, “Doesn’t this mean we’re—”

“Of—of course, just because we’re mates, doesn’t mean we have to be boyfriends. You can find an alpha you’ll be happy with. I want you to be with someone, Kurt.”

“I want a _romance_ —” His heart was about to burst, into confetti pieces of valentine and velvet, broken for eternity. Kurt wiped briskly at his glimmering gaze, with the cuff of one sleeve, clearing his throat: a parody of spring sickness.

“And that’s adorable of you—you’re in love with love, and I can even admire that.” Blaine was not realizing of the heart breaking before him, because he continued on, in damned platonic friendliness.

“I wanted—a romance—with _you_.” It was not his first confession, not his first love to be refused, but still, even as it was his second time professing his feelings—his nose was dripping, snottily and childish; his fine features crumpling together, tears dotting at his cheeks.

Blaine patted the top of Kurt’s hand, laid atop the dining table, between the two of them. “—It’s just the pheromones. You’ll feel better soon.”

* * *

Kurt did not feel any less anchored by unrequited affections, as the days went on: the season harmonious and fertile, with birdsong and bramble-nests upon windowsills, rabbits and their children emerging from burrows. Mating season—his own was approaching, with the first of a new month. He thought of Blaine with other omegas: giggly and light-hearted things, in pastel bits of cloth—or the confident and cologned ones, from families of good breeding, wealthy and waifish—anyone other than him, and he agonized over the imaginary lovers he conjured up. Milk-teeth pressing hard against his own hand, tugging at the nail-beds and cuticles, until his knuckles were splitting and raw, refusing to bite.

He had taken opportunities where he could, in the spare hours between lessons, to visit supermarkets. And in his basket, he brought home: crystalline plastic baglets of fuzzed peaches; miniature watermelons with thick rinds and dark seeds and blush-hued flesh, sold by the slice; champagne grapes, each cluster smaller than pearls. Not simply fruit, but other necessities, too: foil packages of rubber condoms, the sizes selected in humiliating haste: large, extra-large, extra-extra; some lubricated, and others still flavored, in rather childish options of _strawberry_ and _banana_ —he wasn’t sure which ones Blaine would wear, so he had stuffed a variety of them down into the brown paper packages, fumbling for bills in front of the cashier. With this many, there wouldn’t be any more—accidents.

But, when it came to it, the day that Kurt woke sticky and dripping in his underwear, blood and lubricant mingling into congealed smears against his thighs, he was not expecting to be rebuked.

Blaine tugged his sleeve from the curling grasp of ripe fingers, giving him a stern, but sympathetic glance. “I can’t, I have this essay I have to write, and—can’t you take care of it yourself? Maybe another day.” He offered, tapping the thin rods of centimeter-thin lead against pristine sheets of paper, inserting them into the plastic shaft of his mechanical pencil.

Kurt stood trembling, tongue wobbling in the hollow of his mouth, aching to snap something in petty retaliation, vinegar and salt, paper cuts and knee scrapes. “But—you’re my _mate_.”

“There are _hundreds_ of boys at Dalton, Kurt. I’m sure someone can help you. Okay?” Pitying, he combed his thick fingers through the other’s hair—Kurt pressed into the sturdy hand, but it vanished, focused upon clicking the short nubs of pale erasers, assembling his pencil. Academic, responsible, revered—of course, it could only be expected that Blaine wouldn’t fuss over a sole transfer student, every time he had personal troubles.

They were not boyfriends—merely friends, and their sexual contract was fragile and unwritten, with guidelines and rules that could change at any moment.

* * *

The offer of the Warblers still remained, but Kurt had not accepted it. The club of alphas watched him, hungry and half-hard in their trousers, adjusting the wool of their slacks from behind books and between desks, aroused and almost angry with his refusal to subjugate to school traditions. Thin-lipped and with brittle patience, he tolerated the glances and the brusque behaviors abruptly directed towards him—until the afternoon his bag broke. The handsome leather splitting at the bottom, dropping several thick tomes of schoolbooks, and pocket coins, and—the condoms he had purchased. He had taken the precaution to carry at least a row of them, for protection, if Blaine changed his decision. But it was accepted as in invitation by his choir-mates.

“No—they aren’t for everyone!” Kurt explained, and hurried to snatch them up, trying to gather the squares that had broken apart. Some of the boys repressed an ill snort of laughter; nostrils flaring, sniffing more of his pheromones: of rotting fruit—sweet and fermenting, and bone marrow—meat and earth, with each droplet of sweat that blotted beneath his arms.

“Fellow Warblers—everyone knows omegas can’t give consent.” One of the council spoke, wooden gavel held between practiced hands.

“Yes—yes, that’s what I’m saying, I’m not agreeing to this—”

“You misunderstand—while you’re in your—period—” Noses crinkled, almost identically. “It is only responsible to tend to your peers, for everyone’s sake. A relationship of mutual help, both given and taken, is how we all improve, as a group.”

“For—for song practices! Not for sex.” The rubber circlets were snatched from him; the individual casings torn apart, the odor of latex and harvest.

And with that—insanity descended upon the crowd. Freshmen, with cherub faces and portly bellies, couldn’t wait to wrap their fingers around Kurt’s hair—sticky from luncheon: puerile sandwiches of roasted peanuts and hand-stamped berries—tangling the threads into knots, rubbing their erections against his ears, the crown of his head, the end of his hair-line, dripping pre-come into his hair, thick and frothing. Sophomoric students popped off the buttons of his shirt, and simple as pinching reddened heads of their own acne—and took to suckling at his chest, as if expecting sweet milk to drip from his nipples, puffy from the disgusting suction and slurping. Juniors took to taking off his trousers, and stroking the winged bones of his shoulders, the hidden backs of his knees, the dimples of his pelvis, parting the cheeks of his buttocks. Senior students—with the most authority—were afforded the pleasure of wrapping his hands around their knotting cocks, both palms occupied, mouth stuffed full and cheeks bulging, and finally, his entrance plugged by a faceless council member.

Kurt vomited upon one boy—flesh inching halfway down his narrow throat, a bramble-thicket of pubic hair against his nose—wracked with nausea: the consequences of sex with someone other than his marked mate. Groans of disgust rang out, as he tried to wipe away the mess of digested breakfast, leaking from his nose and mouth, sour and corrosive with stomach acid. Whoever was fucking his mouth pulled out—and Kurt wiped the lower half of his face with his sleeve, deprived of tissues and napkins.

“I already have a _mate_!” He choked, between heaving and gagging; if he couldn’t be listened to, perhaps they would respect the man who had taken first claim to him. “All of you, get _away_ from me! Blaine! Blaine!”

“He’s Blaine’s—?” Someone finally voiced concern.

“An alpha— _ghn_ —should keep his omega close. Blaine will understand his contribution to the club.” A baritone close to his ear rumbled; Kurt tried to turn his head to figure out who had spoken, but his jaw was pinched between many sets of fingers. “He’s cleaned up now—we can continue. Who wants his mouth next?”

It was difficult to hear; one enthusiastic male was thrusting against the drum of Kurt’s ear, as if hoping to penetrate his very mind, and the gelatinous contents of his head. He was growing tired, exhausted by struggling, as sets of ivory teeth gnawed at the fatty and treasured bits of him—his throat and thighs and testes. Warm spurts of come crusted upon his lashes and eyelids—the bridge of his nose—the curl of his ears. His intestines were bursting full with creamy concoction, two alphas having shoved their dueling cocks inside at once. Not another pregnancy—he couldn’t—but Kurt’s gaze grew dark, consciousness slipping into the stinking, come-soaked jungle of sexual nightmares.

* * *

Chewing up mild aspirins, and pink and yellow tablets of birth control—purchased in a panic from the nearest supermarket—Kurt swallowed a measly mouthful of tap water, still raw. Come from his classmates oozed thickly from his pucker, in humiliating burbles, viscous and puddingish. He scooped up the pale custard from the dessert section of his meal tray, heaping it upon his spoon, but he could not bring it to his mouth.

“I’m not hungry today.” He explained, at the prompting of Blaine’s concerned glances, trying not to count the tapioca pearls, nor to compare them to the sperm probably wriggling inside of his womb.

* * *

Although he did not have romance, he still had friends.

“Rachel—” He asked, the two of them curled upon her bed for another one of their sleepovers, her bedroom painted in hues of ivory and gold, dazzling stickers of paper stars clinging to their fingers. One of them, she had placed upon his cheek, the adhesive backing itching against his skin. “What do you think about omegas?”

“Not for me.” Rachel said automatically, in between nibbles of popcorn. “I want my boyfriend to be an alpha. Omegas do have a very important role in society: they are at the bottom; and alphas, like myself, are at the top. —Not to say that you won't be an exception, Kurt.” She corrected. “Why are you asking? Why don't you ask Mercedes?”

“Mercedes is a beta.” Kurt answered idly, fingers combing the individual sections of her hair, beginning to braid them together.

She winced, regardless of how carefully he tugged at her cinnamon-dark locks. “What about Brittany? Isn't she the only other omega in glee club?”

“Why, so she can invite herself to a handsy kissing session? Brittany is—the quintessential omega. She loves anyone and everyone—including other omegas, which is unheard of." He grimaced a bit. A red hair-tie tangled around his wrist: he ended the pair of braids with several loops, plastic cherry-baubles jangling. “—There.”

“If I had an omega for a boyfriend—I guess it wouldn’t be so bad. He could stay at home at our city apartment, and I would attend my auditions. We would have a wedding, and—when it comes to children—he would have to carry them, wouldn’t he? Alphas don’t give birth.” She considered the scenario, lips puckering.

“Um— _mm_.” He hummed in response, licking and suckling at his fingers, salt-speckled and dripping with butter.

“Hold still—” She turned around, one hand—the glossy manicure still drying—laid against his chest, atop his heart, her knees pressing around his pelvis.

“—What are you doing?” His tone quivered, his ears blushing carnival-pink, angling his jaw away, as she framed the baby fat of his cheeks between her fingers.

“Stop wriggling or it’ll hurt—” She pinched his chin, and snatched the corner of the star, pulling it off—stinging the pale imprint of flesh beneath it. “I got it—but now there’s _paint_ on you; if you just stayed still, this wouldn’t have—Kurt?”

Kurt’s breath was fluttering; he barely felt the stickiness of colorful lacquer, the tiny decorations transferred from her nails to his face, the cotton-candy-colored polish and miniature faux-pearls and plastic bows. He was reminded of boys and semen and sex. And Rachel—smelled the same as them.

“If you were _my_ omega—” She continued, happy from where she sat, her braids dangling low, wisps of hair brushing the tip of his nose, the ends of his lashes, his parted lips. “I would bite you. So no other alpha could have you. Can you imagine us as mates?” She giggled.

He tried to match her laughter, half-aroused in spite of everything, and when she jokingly scraped her teeth against his wrist—he almost cried.

* * *

After the dubious help from his schoolmates, he was fortunate that nothing had come to fruition. His monthly periods occurred as ordinary, and the bloody badges staining the crumpled lining of his napkins were victories. But Kurt, in all of his relief and innocence, had not accounted for his parent finding the illicit groceries he had purchased before.

“I want you to explain somethin’ to me—” A column of summer-blue condoms crinkled between Burt’s thick fingers, plucked from the discarded school satchel. “ _What_ are you doing with these?”

Kurt’s stomach dropped, the apple of his throat bobbing against his collar, tongue slipping out to dampen his lips, to try to prepare some excuse. “Sch—school gave those to me.”

“Didn’t we have this talk a couple of months ago? You’re too young for a mate. Especially not _breeding_ with one! And you expect me to believe that the classes are just givin’ rubbers out—I didn’t sign a permission slip for you!”

Burt, his stomach practically bursting from his autumnal, ill-seasoned plaid: having gained a few too many extra pounds, in his child’s absence—and Kurt, in a gingham apron, strings tied in knots behind his back—almost resembled some incestuous painting of domestic, awful, American gothic.

“They’re not _for_ anyone! I’m not having sex—” Not purposefully. “So why would I buy them? How _could_ I buy them? I’m not an adult!”

“Did one of the older boys put you up to it? Any other kids, picking on you?” With horror, the son watched as the father peeled one of the wrappers apart, studying it, to find the contents unbroken.

“—If you have to pry, dad, then yes. The—the _alphas_ think it’s funny, for the omega to have those sort of—sex supplies. And I didn’t want to tell you because I didn’t want to worry you!”

“Then why didn’t you just throw them away? Who are they _for_?” The condom snapped against fingers, poking inside the pocket—accessing the depth. They were the very largest ones, of the entire assortment.

“No one. I don’t _have_ a boyfriend.” Kurt insisted, and it was the truth; his words wobbling in bafflement and betrayal.

“—Go to bed without supper. That’s for lyin’ to me. I don’t care if you’re still cooking it, just—go to your room.” Burt never did relinquish the foil packets.

* * *

“I realized yesterday, that I haven’t been teaching you everything.” Burt explained, sitting heavily down beside Kurt. “I know I’ve been setting some bad examples, but I wanna give you good examples, too.”

Kurt glanced reluctantly—sitting on their lumpy couch, with broken springs and sagging cotton; a dinner tray perilously perched across his crossed thighs; the tri-color television broadcasting some football game from the eighties—to his father, holding a tape in triumph. It was old enough that their video-cassette recorder gobbled it up, with some choking of the ancient machinery, and began to play.

Pornography—in familiar colors of flesh hues and graphic glimpses of innards: a male alpha, entangled with a female omega, his knot working into her folds, her labia impaled by the girth of his erection.

“No—I’m not watching this.” Kurt shut his eyes, but sausagish fingers sprung them apart. Lewd moans and guttural groans cried out from the grainy television—he tried to plug his ears, but his wrists were held down.

“This is for you to learn! I know she’s a girl, but that omega—you’re the same as her, inside, all your—parts. If you get a boyfriend some day, when you’re already buyin’ protection behind my back, you gotta—figure out how to actually— _do_ it.”

“But I know how pregnancy works! Just _please_ turn it off.” He begged, intestines churning at the hint of warmth gathering, his little entrance growing wet, in natural preparation. Heterosexual sex did not bring him pleasure—but the man had blue-black curls, and a jaw peppered with stubble, and honed musculature, penetrating deeply, trying to cram more of the shaft inside.

Kurt stayed flaccid, watching his father through lowered lashes, rather than the imagery. Burt was more intent on the girl, some poor writhing daughter, her throat bared for biting, and Kurt saw—the hand fisted within the cotton confines of pilling underwear.

“Dad—” Kurt rose from the couch, before he was brought back down, by a clap of a palm. “Don’t do that _here_ —”

“Kurt—you do it, too.” There was no question, Burt was bringing his fingers over his cock, knotless and of average detail, but girthy and forested with pubic hair, and—Kurt was _staring_ at it. There was no technique in the stroking, so much as sheer blunt pressure.

Kurt never had to partake in the masculine competition of comparing his genitals to other men—but he blushed, infantile in comparison: his flesh scraped and shaved bare, his little penis wilted within his slender fingers, ivory and rose-gold and pearl. He was sensitive—he winced at his own half-hearted stroking.

It did not feel good, it felt forbidden. His listened to the wheezing, concern striking through him: what if that weakened heart failed—but he could not worry much, when the actor and actress were occupying both of their imaginations. Burt puffing into his ear, yanking on his manhood, spilling—Kurt’s fingers stuttering, faltering, and halting altogether, denied orgasm, crying out at the semblance of pleasure before it faded, his boyhood palpitating.

He glanced downwards, drearily: the father’s semen had splattered the son’s stomach, puddling in the indentation of his navel, soaking into his clothing. The tape was spat out, and he hastily stuffed his cock away, ignoring how it protruded.

“Did you learn something?” Burt huffed; Kurt pretended to be occupied with tending to the toppled supper tray: the miniature brownies and technicolor nonpareils smushed into the carpet.

“—Don’t have sex with alphas.” He recited—his fingernails dark with chocolate crumbs, gathering up the ruined food.

* * *

After the mildest of springs, summer was beginning to come in just a few more weeks, in puckering-peel beverages and bursts of sweltering days, cloudless expanses of skies and picnic-patch grasses.

Kurt wet his own mouth, clothed in his sexless pinafore and chestnut hair freshly-cut, close to the ears—the tips of them bearing poppy-red cuts from clumsy scissor snips; watching the boy take a seat opposite—Blaine: in a napkin-pale button-down, folded at the broadest point of his shoulders, blackberry-ripe thatches of hair curling at his under-arms.

“Have you ever been in love?” Kurt asked, too blatant to be anything but a desperate plea.

Blaine gave him a smile, one palm held out to ward off the bright billows of sunlight, beating down upon the schoolgrounds. “There were some times—when I thought so. Men who were so—damned good-looking, guys who helped me in school, but—last year, I had a realization."

“Yes?” Exactly one year prior, they had been vigorously fucking against one of the desks. Kurt clutched his hands together, thumb and forefinger pinching the thin skin, to settle—the male had been forceful, but he had only acted with good intentions, after all, and—perhaps he could formally forgive Blaine. For the forgetting of the condom, the agony of deflowering, the visit to the hospital. They could start again, with a new season. “Yes? What did you realize?” He pressed.

“That no, I haven’t been in love.” Delivered with all the promptness and ease of a postal card.

Kurt nibbled upon his drinking straw: the striped paper dissolving into the glass bottle. “— _Oh_.”

“And you? Have you found a good alpha? We’re friends, you have to let me meet him, if you do.”

“No—no one yet.” He murmured, a hint too insincere, because he hastily corrected: “Actually, yes. There is someone I want—someone I want to be with—to stay home for, to have a family for, to be everything an omega should be for.”

“I don’t feel the same way, Kurt, I’m—really sorry, I keep telling you—”

“But you mated with me—you _marked_ me—I can’t think of anyone _but_ you, it’s _biology_ —once we’ve bonded, we’re supposed to be— _together_."

“You can’t expect me to pay for one mistake for the rest of my life.”

“Not—not the rest of your life. But—but just—one more time.” Kurt was begging, weeping morning tears, shuddering: his womb cramping and fertile and ripe—even without his heat cycle starting. Their bodies dictated it of them: to join in fulfilling that primal breeding instinct. “Not sex. It doesn’t have to be that.”

“If we keep doing this—” Blaine began, in the lowest tone, trilling trembles through Kurt. “We won’t be dating. Can you understand that?”

“—I accept, I agree, I just need _something_ —”

Blaine’s impatient mouth was a bit chapped from arid temperatures, his lips a tad narrow, but experienced, and umami with the flavors of his previous meal: plain rice and roasted fish and salted emerald pieces of seaweed, harvested from the ocean. Kurt had sampled sugary pink lemonade, in sips and swallows, just moments before—he must taste tart, as an opposite set of teeth peeled back the tender flesh of his lips, biting harshly.

Kurt cried out in muffled hurt, but it was smothered by a tongue exploring the depths of his throat: thick and brine-slippery—and Blaine pulled back, a few scant inches, a glimmering thread of spittle between their messy mouths, breaking apart as if fragile filaments.

They were truly tied together: by fate, by physicality. Kurt thought of his father’s education, of Rachel’s girlish fancies, and when Blaine laid him down, against the meadow flowers and mint sprigs and lemon-grasses, he did not struggle—much.

Kurt closed his eyes and pretended it was love.


End file.
